


Courtly Manners

by Erradianwhocantread



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Fealty Kink, Humor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rule 63, Sex, Soul Bond, a very nice time is had by all, lord vassal dynamic, only in jest though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 16:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14217507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erradianwhocantread/pseuds/Erradianwhocantread
Summary: High King Fingon deals with her errant beloved's insolence in a mutually agreeable fashion.





	Courtly Manners

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Rule 63, if you don't like it go read something you will like instead.  
> 2) This takes place around the middle of Fingon's kingship.  
> 3) There's some negotiation of boundaries during the lead-up to the sexy bits, but it's the normal kind that usually happens when Something New is being tried.

Fingon hadn’t seen the scouts until her hawking party was right on top of them, and she wasn’t sure if her incompetence or the fact that they’d been able to get that far into her territory in the first place made her more angry. Fingolfin would never had allowed it. At least she could take satisfaction in their complete victory. Not a single one of those foul creatures would return to its fouler master to tell tales, and the worst her own folk could complain of were flesh-wounds. The smoke from their pyre rose in the distance as she dismounted in the courtyard at Barad Eithel. The atmosphere was off, like lightning was about to strike. Had the scouts been the forerunners of some larger force? Was their enemy launching another attack? Fingon stifled a laugh when she saw the real reason for the crackling tension in the air. Maedhros had arrived earlier than she had been looked for, and she was, predictably, furious. She had planted herself in the exact middle of the courtyard, her back painfully straight, her jaw so set that Fingon could actually see the muscles standing out from her head, arms crossed over her chest, giving her beloved a look that would have frozen the blood of anyone else. 

“Hail, Lord of the Marches!” called Fingon, handing her horse off to her stable-master.

“My King,” answered Maedhros stonily. She did not bow.

Fingon knew exactly to what her temper was due. And it was not something that she would subject herself to. She would not be told about the unnecessary risk she had put herself in, the risk she had put all of them in by doing so, the selfishness of the act, the demands of her station in terms of personal responsibility and safety. Fingon would have taken, had taken, such rebukes from her mother and her king. She would not take it from her beloved and her vassal.

“Think you, my lord of Himring, that you are exempt from showing the same courtesies and respects to the High King of the Noldor just because of our kinship?” she demanded. The energy of the ambush and the battle was still singing in her veins, and Maedhros had put herself right in its path.

In response, Maedhros gave the barest head-tilt of a bow that Fingon had ever seen. Caranthir had showed more obeisance at Fingolfin’s coronation. “I meant no disrespect, my king,” she bit out, her overprotective anger boiling just below the surface.

“And yet,” retorted Fingon, “You continue to give it.” She stalked closer, but not close enough that Maedhros, who had always been better at looking dangerously regal, could tower over her. “It seems that your time in the frozen east has dulled your manners. You will follow us, that we may help you refresh them.” With that she turned on her heel and strode off in the direction of her chambers. She felt Maedhros roll her eyes and shake her head before following. Well, she could pay for that too when they reached their destination.

They walked in silence through the halls and up the staircases of Barad Eithel until they neared Fingon’s apartments. The hallway leading to them was empty, and Maedhros, apparently, had been restrained from giving her unsolicited opinions more by the ears of others than by Fingon’s obvious disinclination to hear them. “How can you think it acceptable to risk yourself in such petty--”

“We do not desire to hear a lecture on our actions from the insolent lord of the marches!” snapped Fingon. But she let a softer honesty flow through their bond, that Maedhros might know how glad she was to have her here, and that this frustration was with her inability to keep her borders tight rather than with her beloved’s behavior.

Behind her, Maedhros swallowed her rebukes. “And what is it that my king does desire?” she asked, reaching out to open the door for Fingon and bowing low as she held it open.

Fingon waited until both of them were in the anteroom and the door closed before putting her mouth as close to Maedhros’s ear as she could without touching her. “What I desire,” she hissed into her ear, “is your fingers inside me, your body over mine, and your lips on my neck.”

They stared at each other for a moment in silent negotiation of whether Fingon had overstepped. Maedhros’s face bore no expression, the walls around her mind showed no crack, and her tone was even and stale when she responded. “As my king commands.”

Stepping quickly out of Maedhros’s reach, Fingon amended “I  _ command _ no such thing. Tis, as all such desires, contingent entirely upon my beloved’s wishes.”  _ As you ought to well know by now is the case _ went gently with is.

For the first time since Fingon had seen her today, a smile began to tease at Maedhros’s lips. “As my king  _ desires _ then.” And under it Fingon felt the months of longing Maedhros had stored up for her, the anger and worry stoking it so it grew hot. 

Fingon cast her cloak aside. She was filthy, her clothes and face streaked with red and black blood, the shallow gash across her cheek barely scabbed, dirt smearing her hair and Eru knew what else, and had Maedhros not been there to greet her she probably would have gone straight to the baths the second she was done upbraiding her captains for letting a scouting party snoop around under their very noses. But both of those tasks would have to wait now. Fingon was halfway out of her clothes when she noticed Maedhros had made no motion to remove her own. “I said I desired to have your body over mine,” she said, keeping the high tone of the king out of play, “not your garments.”

Maedhros looked with the mildest trepidation about the anteroom. “Here, my king?” she asked, making a vague gesture that encompassed both the large window onto the courtyard and the conspicuous lack of both furniture and cushions.

It would, probably, be a better idea to take the scant moments necessary to move to a more comfortable (and more discreet) location, but this encounter had begun with her refusing (as was her royal right) to listen to Maedhros’s good counsel, and she wasn’t about to change course now. Affecting her haughtiest demeanor, Fingon answered “Yes,  _ here _ , and  _ now _ , as well. And I will thank my lord of the marches to keep her opinions on the matter to herself. Unless here and now presents some undue burden to you of which we are not aware.” Fingon suspected that the concern for their privacy and comfort was at least partially feigned, an attempt to drag this out until she was ready to explode from frustration. It was Maedhros’s favorite game. 

Maedhros looked unconvinced. “Not to be indelicate, my king,” she began. Fingon scoffed. As if she herself had not just been as indelicate as it was possible to be. As if delicacy had any place between them. “But I believe the, ah, tools of the trade, as it were,” a less practiced eye would have missed that infuriatingly self-satisfied smugness twitch at the corners of Maedhros mouth. “Are in your bedchamber. Unless,” wondered Maedhros, casting her eyes about the small room in mock innocence, “they have been relocated without my knowing?”

“I said I wanted your fingers, not some expertly crafted device, inside me, and as you have forgotten that so quickly I can only conclude you were not paying attention.”

Maedhros snorted and failed miserably to suppress her grin. “Oh I have it on excellent authority that my fingers are most expertly crafted, my king.”

Fingon considered briefly shoving her out the window. She opted instead for shoving her to the wall and silencing any further ridiculous quips with her own mouth. The kiss was sloppy and too hard at first, and Fingon only bothered to amend it that to inelegant and forceful. Against her, Maedhros absorbed Fingon’s frustrated passion but did not yield, did not respond. If Fingon hadn’t been able to feel her intentions, that this restraint was staged, part of the the game, she would have halted it immediately. Fingon kept her mouth on Maedhros’s as she tore at both their clothes, letting battle-stained and travel-worn garments fall where they would. Maedhros made no move to help but did not resist. Maedhros had dressed for the mildness of the season and wore only her undershirt beneath her deel. The outer layer discarded, Fingon pulled the light fabric up and slid her hand firmly and slowly up, up that long, sleek plane until she reached Maedhros’s breasts. Fingon deepened the kiss and toyed first with the underside of one breast before letting her hand come to rest fully over it, press down, grip. Maedhros’s knees shook, and a small moan escaped her control and floated into Fingon’s mouth, followed by her tongue. Her right arm pressed around the small of Fingon’s back and her hand, trembling oh so slightly, came up to stroke along Fingon’s jaw.

Abruptly, Fingon stepped back and surveyed her work with pride. The only part of Maedhros that resembled her usual curated self was the twisted rope of hair still pinned in a spiral at the back of her head. Her freckled cheeks were flushed, eyes wide and wanting, confused, her lips swollen and red, her remaining clothes a frightful mess. Fingon smiled dangerously. “We are not so quick to forget your earlier insolence. We said we would refresh your manners, march lord, and we mean to do so.”

Maedhros completed the role reversal by choosing to take exactly one-half of the hint. She closed the distance between them and lifted Fingon to sit on the sill of the window, her naked back smudging and impression into the pane. She pressed her body to Fingon’s and buried her face in the crook of Fingon’s neck. “Surely the lesson can wait, my king?” she growled.

Fingon reeked of sweat and horse and battle, had been aware that she did since before she’d dismounted in the courtyard. It was tempting, so so tempting to give in to this show of need and this flattery, to let Maedhros press herself into her like the smell of her was the most intoxicating thing in Arda… but that was not the game. “I’m a-- aaaah… afraid it cannot,” said Fingon, stuttering and sighing when Maedhros sucked at the underside of her jaw. Her fingers were teasing at the top of Fingon’s trousers. It was almost enough. That delicious pressure on her neck, the sweet closeness of her beloved wrapped around her, the buzzing anticipation, and the nearly frenzied pleasure she could feel pulsing through Maedhros, almost enough for her to relent and end this silly game here and now.

And then Maedhros opened her mouth. “Am I not doing as you asked, my king?” lilted into Fingon’s ear in the most infuriating mockery of earnest innocence. 

“Your jibes indicate to us that you require far more instruction than we had originally thought.” It took every ounce of Fingon’s determination to get through the sentence without ruining it by moaning from the careful bites with which Maedhros was peppering her ear.

Fingon fell awkwardly from the window-sill as Maedhros released her as if she suddenly burned. She’d overstepped. She must have. The attempts at getting her to quit this foolish game hadn’t been strategy at all, that’d been the gloss, and she’d mistaken it for substance. She’d known this style of game was risky. She should have paid better attention to the signs her beloved was sending her and instead… But Maedhros winked, and the smile that graced her lips was more wicked than anything. “Then consider me an eager pupil.”

Eager she was, so eager that Fingon was nearly overwhelmed by it. She cleared her throat and moved to a position of more dignity, standing as tall as she could with her back to the wall, and her feet not tangled in her own robe. “We will start with your method of greeting us,” she said, sounding less and less kingly with each syllable. “It was… ah…”

As ever, Maedhros was several steps ahead of her, and was happy to rescue her from her own verbal fumbling. “Of course,” she said, as if remembering suddenly what she ought to have done. Fingon realized too late that she should probably chide her for interrupting. Maedhros went swiftly down on one knee, far closer to Fingon than either the narrowness of the chamber or the gesture of fealty required, her nose barely missing the front of Fingon’s trousers as she tilted her chin up to meet Fingon’s eyes. “Is this what my king had in mind?”

Discarding even the flimsy pretext that she was still playing, Fingon choked out a “yes,” and swallowed heavily. Maedhros pressed a tender, open-mouthed kiss to Fingon’s soft belly as she clumsily undid the fastenings of Fingon’s trousers and slid them down over her hips. It could have been enough. Fingon could have been satisfied with this, should not ask for more, and yet. She reached down to tilt Maedhros’s chin up until their eyes met.

“My king?” 

Fingon bit her lip uncertainly and gazed down at her (so lovely). Nigh on five centuries and she still didn’t know how to ask. She let her mind fall so open that it seemed to fill the little room. Maedhros understood. She smiled fondly (Fingon could have looked at that smile for ages of the world and still not tired of it), bent to kiss the swell of her thigh, and  _ ah _ ! Fingon felt the door to Maedhros’s own mind, which she’d kept bolted and locked since she’d arrived, allowing only the most necessary sentiments through, swing open. She felt that precious warmth and determination that ran through Maedhros’s spirit like iron rods, felt the trust, the admiration, the longing that she inspired in her. Fingon closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the cold stone.

Maedhros was up to her old tricks, kissing everywhere but where she knew she ought and carding her fingers through the thatch of hair between Fingon’s legs as if that was going to do anything. She had tormented Fingon like this for almost an entire afternoon once on the other side of the Sea. “To see how tight you can be wound,” she had said then. Fingon had cursed and begged piteously at the time, but kings did neither. Kings were patient, and she could be patient. When Maedhros was satisfied with how she was tuned, she’d move on from this infernal teasing. And so Fingon waited, enjoying the soft press of lips at her hip, at the fold where her leg joined her body, on her belly, on her thigh, shivered pleasantly at the occasional flick or drag of Maedhros’s tongue, shared the curious intimacy of having that hair played with. There was no part of her that Maedhros did not consider the pinnacle of beauty, and though Fingon was not vain, it was flattering to feel such appreciation for parts of herself she never paused to think on. 

_ Ai!  _ And there it was, that eloquent tongue running too lightly over her clit. Maedhros pressed her face in, kissing Fingon’s vulva like she would kiss her lips, and then began a steady rhythm, passing the flat of her tongue firmly over that swollen point. Fingon realized too late that her exclamation when Maedhros made her first salvo had been out loud, and quite loud, and then decided she didn’t care. Being High King had some benefits, after all. She braced herself against the wall and moaned, high and clear, at every pass, her fingers curling around the stone. Fingon hazarded a glance down at her beloved, and the sight had her shuddering and keening as she peaked. How on earth Maedhros managed to look  _ reverent  _ in such a position was beyond comprehension, but somehow she did. And it was too much for Fingon, to have the one who had stolen her heart from her with a grin and a wink and whom she’d thought was hopelessly beyond her for so long acting as if it were some holy privilege to to lay her mouth to her. Fingon didn’t think that gratifying wonder would ever wear thin. 

As the wave of pleasure passed, Fingon tried to remember how to formulate the word “please,” and all the other words that must come after it if the ringing  _ want  _ in her loins were to be articulated. But of course she didn’t have to articulate it, for Maedhros could feel it well enough. A long finger slid over Fingon’s labia, but not in, as the tongue kept it’s relentless pace. Fingon whined in a very unkingly fashion as the finger continued to tease about her entrance for what was a very ingraciously long time. Finally, it deigned to slide in, a long, deliberate stroke before it came to rest inside her. Fingon groaned, relishing in the feel of it, foreign and Maedhros and pressing so perfectly against her inner walls. Maedhros groaned into her, feeling the echoes of Fingon’s pleasure, and set to stroking her. Fingon peaked again almost immediately, pleasure building on pleasure as her muscles tightened around the finger inside her. It was joined by another, and she didn’t think she could have restrained her shouts if she’d wanted to. Her thighs buckled, her head rolled from side to side, and were it not for the wall she would have fallen. The pressure of Maedhros’s fingers in her, stroking again and again over the rough spot near her entrance, melting her innards, and then pressing up, causing a deeper pleasure to heat in her belly, joined with the sharp delight her beloved’s mouth sent spiking through her chased every thought, every sensation else, from her entirely. And pulsing around her, with an ardor and a warmth so fierce it almost burned, was Maedhros’s spirit. She sunk herself into it, let the edges between them blur and mingle, and oh, what radiant delight, to be so filled, so enveloped, oh, oh

_ AI! _

Maedhros pulled her fingers, slick to dripping, from her, guided her boneless body to sit astride her lap and held her close. Whether the words of love were spoken or thought, Fingon could not tell any more than she could respond with anything more coherent that waves of adoration, satisfaction, and the heady buzz that had her reduced so. The flagstones were far from comfortable but they didn’t move. Fingon tried futilely to kiss the soreness from her beloved’s jaw as Maedhros’s fingers chased back and forth lazily across her cheek and ear, griming it further. They’d have to wash in the basin before they even ventured to the baths. 

Once Fingon had come back to herself enough to string words together and move from where she was slumped on Maedhros, she kissed the base of her ear and asked “How do you want me, my love?”

Maedhros pulled back so they were looking at each other, her cheeks burning, eyes dark, and her lips (ah!) swollen and red, face wet. “Serving you, my king, is my highest pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly wonder while I'm writing this how Maedhros ever manages to get laid with that sense of humor. Hope you enjoyed my 2nd attempt at explicit femslash, and thank you for reading!


End file.
